Spirit of the Mist

"To see a world in a Grain of Sand,
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour."

William Blake (1757-1827)

This is a sacred place of great mystery and spirituality for over ten thousand years. I am but only one of millions over the centuries that have come to witness this spectacular force of nature born of water and rock. A steady stream of cold water runs down my chest forcing me to grasp in short elevated breaths as the mist surrounds me in a white shroud of moisture. Wind drives raindrops against my exposed face unable to see in alabaster blindness, I shift my footing to regain balance. The roar of a million lions would be lost like a falling leaf in a great forest as the tidal wave of sound that assaults the senses. The earth quivers from the power of billions of tons crashing from the sky to ground below. For the briefest of moments we collectively discover how insignificant our life is within the context of this surreal world, humbled by a scale that is difficult to comprehend, yielding to a power that is immeasurable in one’s mind. All my concerns, worries and thoughts erode from the soul in presence of the sublime.

Never before have I been able to find such spirituality with nature while standing shoulder to shoulder in a crowd of hundreds. Assessing the sublime beauty of nature in the past has always been a solitary endeavor requiring silence and reflection as it systematically revealed itself in an intimacy of a new lover. Seldom can I recall the spirituality of nature being so literal and bold, untamed as it screamed to your soul to listen as you have never listened before. As if it was a sign of divine intervention the grey day broke the exact moment before the object of our journey was revealed to our timid eyes. The fog surrounding everything begins to glow with an angelic softness and light. The roar intensifies as it shakes the flesh, while the wind howls with rich organic breath of the essence of all life. Bodies shift and clamor to steady themselves against each other as the footing bounces and bucks like a wild mare. Nothing in life could prepare me for the vision that emerges from the glowing cloud of mist as I try to comprehend the wispy transparent spirits that dance in the fog like jesters swirling on the air in the court of the king. Each gust of water laden air makes the snowy spirits spin in pirouettes as I wipe the dew from my brow. Each of us is covered in a thin blue plastic veil which bellows and balloons around us like a legion of monks huddled before the mouth of a hurricane.

Suddenly the cloud of mist parts revealing a wall of water falling from the sky hundreds of feet above, as a slight sliver of blue sky trace the top of the cascading torrents of water with white cottony clouds dances with soft misty fog blending into a glowing frame in which to view this majestic fury. The scene is completely devoid of color with the exception of the pale stripe of azure sky and the foam green trace of water being refracted in the sunlight. The view is as inspiring as furious, heavenly as destructive, seductive as demanding. My mind reels as I turn my headed only to discover that the wall of water encompasses my entire view in all directions, as the narrow gap we entered from disappears behind the ubiquitous cloud of mist. It is as close to a vision of the gates of heaven I have ever imagined, glowing angelic white, powerfully defensive preventing all but the pure from entering. As the mist washes over me, I feel my sadness, my isolation, my pain subside and be cleansed from my thoughts. Calmness fills me as I deeply inhale the spirit laden mist from this sacred place, allowing me to once again feel joy in the presence of such incredible reverence. It has been a long time since I felt connected to the world, having drifted in a meaningless wasteland of false hope for which there was little comfort. The cold mist had slaps my soul to awaken from a pathetic destructive trance which had been suffocating my mind.

Returning to shore with the balance of the worshipers bathed in enthusiastic glee, I am at once drained but renewed by the short experience up the river. Images of sublime beauty, heavenly power and swirling clouds of mist dancing before my eyes, fills my mind. Discovering this idyllic place, we find ourselves filled with a yearning to linger here, where time has no start or end, but is constant and beauty overwhelms. I have been touched by the spirit of a greater power and it has rendered me tranquil and renewed to set forth with vigor. In the days since my experience at the falls, I have reflected on the sheer power and beauty frequently which in some unique way I am changed. My soul has seen an earthly rendition of the gates of heaven guarded by the spirit of the mist finding comfort in her majestic beauty and to this end I can see her majestic beauty is all I see.

Horseshoe Falls, Niagare, Canada Photo by Mr. Blue

"There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature - the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after the winter."

Rachel Carson

Poutine, Pernot & Poussé

Notre Dame Cathedral, Montreal, Quebec, Canada, 2007. Photo by Mr. Blue

“The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand.”

Frank Herbert (1920-1986)

The sounds of the calèche or horse-drawn carriages echo on narrow cobblestone streets, flanked by 18th- and 19th-century greystone buildings as I watch the snow swirl and dance on the sidewalk. December has brought me to Old Montreal for a board meeting. Our hotel is a delightful historic stone structure over 200 years old, which is considered by Conde Naste as the finest hotel in Canada and I have found no reason to disagree. The holiday spirit fills the air as Christmas decorations adorn the restaurants beckoning to come in and sit by the warm fire to indulge in the exquisite French cuisine. Montreal is the world’s second-largest French-speaking city but is also a melting pot of cultures from around the world, as its mosaic of neighborhoods and diversity of restaurants fill Old Town.

As I walk along the St. Lawrence River waterfront under a long allee of snow covered trees, I am following in the footsteps of Jacques Cartier, who became the first European to reach the area now known as Montreal in 1535 when he entered Island of Montreal while in search of the Northwest Passage and gold. Montreal was named for the Island of Montreal, which in turn was named for Mount Royal a mountain, immediately north of downtown Montreal. As I turn my back to the river the historic facades of Old Montreal frame the dome of the Gothic Revival Notre-Dame basilica which is renowned for the dazzling opulence of its interior. Within an hour I’m completely at home in this beautiful city which is as close to being in Europe as you can find on the North American continent.

Half of our board members are Canadians, who are intent in sharing every aspect of Montreal culture, which makes the stay even more special. Our first new delight was traveling across town to have lunch at the finest Poutine restaurant in Montreal. None on the Canadians would explain what Poutine was as we huddled in the cab. All they would say in that you can’t adequately describe Poutine, it needs to me experienced. A few of the more fussy Americans are concerned when they could not discover the origin of Poutine. In preparation for not partaking in this mystery food, one board member states “I just want you to know there are things I will not eat.”

Curious the Canadian guide begins to prompt the board member on what types of food are off the list?

“Well I don’t eat any type of animal organs.”

Everyone stuffed in the cab breaks out into laughter as the Canadian responds “By God what type of barbarians are you Americans?”

The cab pulls up to a small nondescript small lunch counter in a blue collar neighborhood as we pour out of the backseat and head inside. The interior resembles an old dinner with chrome 1950 style tables and chairs. Everyone inside has the same large dish of Poutine in front of them along with a coke. Poutine is a French-Canadian food that slightly resembles American Gravy Cheese Fries (Uuukkkk), but is actually very, very different in many respects. Poutine is readily-available across Canada, but as locals say it only really tastes good in French Quebec.

According to legend Warwick Quebec is the place where Poutine was invented back in 1957 by restaurateur Fernand Lachance, who died leaving not only his calorific imprint but also some serious questions about the low-carb fuss. Poutine is Acadian slang for mushy mess and is best described as a heart attack in a bowl. By the way, there is a proper way to pronounce poutine, and it's not 'poo-teen'. The phonetic pronunciation is 'peu-tin', which always elicits a vacant stare when one orders it using that word.

The French Fries - The potatos must be hand-cut and very fresh. Fast-food-type fries will not taste quite as good. Also, you must fry the potatoes in pure lard. Vegetable oil and other politically-correct oils spoil the unique taste.

The Gravy - French-Canadian gravy (also known as BBQ Chicken Gravy) is very different than American gravy. First of all, it is very dark and thick, like molasses. Secondly, it has a very flavorful taste which cannot be described...very much like pepper and vinegar and other 'magical' ingredients. Apparently if you can stand a spoon straight up in it, it's good!

The Cheese - The cheese is the most important part of good Poutine. You must use fresh white, cheddar cheese curds. These curds have a taste and texture very different than actual cheddar cheese. The cheese curds actually squeak in your teeth as you bite them.

Traditional Montreal Poutine

The overflowing plates of Poutine arrived at the table without ceremony. Poutine is a French Canadian equivalent of comfort food for a winter day. It was a delightful treat, but I’m not sure I’ll need to experience Poutine again anytime soon as it was almost impossible to finish the excessively oversized portions. I did notice that the fussy Americans seemed to like the Poutine the best while constantly asking “No really what is cheese curds made from?”

The following night for dinner we were treated to one of the top 10 restaurants in Canada which specialized Portuguese Italian fusion food. The restaurant was in a nondescript trendy urban neighborhood which had a lot of street life. The interior of the restaurant was very euro clique and only seated about thirty people. Our crowd of eighteen completely took over the restaurant as we joked with the owner. We allowed the owner to serve us anything he wanted as the plates of incredible food rolled out of the kitchen. There was grilled octopus in a wonderful rich smoky lentil stew, grilled whole squid marinated in olive oil and vinegar, smoked spicy Chorizo sausage, plates of cheese and grilled vegetables, tender lamb shanks in a lemon reduction, cubed pork with clams in a spicy tomato sauce, tiger prawns and scallops. This type of gourmet dining is the standard reward for donating time all year to the organization and the group was reveling in the hospitality, friendship and food. We spend the entire time in the restaurant in a ruckus debate of the differences between Canadian and American culture. “Ya know what I mean, eh?”

Our Canadian guide finally leaned over to me and said “Let me order you an after dinner drink, something I only drink here in Quebec.”

A short time later the owner brings two glasses of ice and two small beakers of a clear liquid. As he pours the clear liquid over the glass of ice it turns cloudy with a pale lime green tint. My guide holds his glass up in a toast and whispers “Pernod, my friend. Remember I graduated from McGill University just down the road here in Montreal and it’s my tradition for you.” As I sipped the Pernod , the leading characteristic was a licorice flavor, which is produced with anise.

According to the Pernod Company, “We owe this elixir to "Docteur Ordinaire", a French doctor in exile in Switzerland. In 1805, the Pernod Fils Company from Pontarlier in France began distilling the secret formula. From 1830 on, artists took to this elixir in the cafés of Paris. "Green fairy" to artists and poets seeking new pleasures, absinthe became one of the strongest symbols of its era with its enigmatic color and the ritual surrounding it. It is sublimated in the works of Verlaine, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Oscar Wilde, Manet, Toulouse-Lautrec, and later Picasso.”

Seduction by The Green Fairy (cira 1885)

With the new temperance movement growing around the world at the turn of the century, many prominent French politicians and scientists turned their interest to France's new, most popular alcoholic beverage: absinthe. Absinthe was the subject of much stormy, impassioned debate, and was banned in 1915 in France. Today, with the legalization of Thujone and Absinth Wormwood in alcoholic beverages in the European Union, the Pernod Company has attempted to recreate what they thought would be the new Pernod-Fils absinthe.

Once we began drinking Pernod there was no stopping the group. The “Green Fairy” took control as we laughed and carried on until after 1:00 am. I one point I think I actually began speaking French. Since it was the last night the group was going to be together we decided to stop at a bar across the street from the hotel, for one final Pernod.

Outside the bar there was a steep series of steps leading to the door. I became accustom to the collection of young women hanging outside the bar door since smoking was banned in all buildings. As we passed the girls I reached for the door and pulled it. It can’t be closed there are a number of people visible from the windows, so I pulled harder assuming it was stuck. All of a sudden I hear the girls next to me giggle and start saying “Pussy, pussy, Monsieur.” Each time they repeated it then would once again begin giggling at us. I thought to myself that the women are quite accommodating here in Montreal, embarrassed to look for fear they might be serious. I smile and utter “Yes, Yes very nice, Mademoiselle.” It this response they all broke into laughter as one of the girls reaches over and points at a small sign above the door which says “Poussé” It only takes a second for my high school French to kick in as I translate the word as “Push” in English. I guess I’ve had enough of the Green Fairy and turn away from the door explaining to the young women that if we are unable to enter the bar on our own we should call it a night. As I say goodbye to the group, I can’t wait to return to this delightful city and experience some more Poutine, Pernot and Poussé.

“Custom is the great guide of human life.”

David Hume (1711 - 1776)

Holiday Wishes

Old Town Montreal, Canada 2007. Photo by Mr. Blue

"May you go forth under the strength of heaven,
under the light of sun, under the radiance of moon;
may you go forth with the splendor of fire,
with the speed of lightening, with the swiftness of wind;
may you go forth supported by the depth of sea,
by the stability of earth, by the firmness of rock;
May you be surrounded and encircled,
with the protection of the nine elements."

Old Celtic Blessing

You Are Love

Halifax, Canada 2007. Photo by Mr. Blue

"A soul that sees beauty may sometimes walk alone."

Johann von Goeth (1749-1832)

On the Trail of Rapture

Off the Coast of Nova Scotia, Canada. Photo by Mr. Blue

I am fevered with the sunset,
I am fretful with the bay,
For the wander-thirst is on me
And my soul is in Cathay.

There's a schooner in the offing,
With her topsails shot with fire,
And my heart has gone aboard her
For the Islands of Desire.

I must forth again to-morrow!
With the sunset I must be
Hull down on the trail of rapture
In the wonder of the sea.

Richard Hovey (1864-1900)

Beyond Sight of Shore

Moon Rise from Deck on the Bay of Fundy, Nova Scotia.

Photo by Mr. Blue.

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Mark Twain (1835-1910)

The Meeting Place

Toronto is a place that I had no image or expectation. My brief internet search before I stepped on the plane provided few clues as to the real identity of the city I would soon be experiencing. It is rare that I travel to a destination completely cold without a list of attractions that I would attempt to visit if circumstances allowed. The list is always more extensive than time ever allows. Other commitments consumed every minute for weeks prior to the trip so the journey had the feel of a scavenger hunt. I was unaware of the hotel I was booked at until I pulled out the memo on the plane. The only fundamental piece of information I knew was that I should expect my cab ride to the hotel to cost about $40.00.

Toronto would not reveal itself immediately. Clearing customs was simple, although a passport will be required by year end. Previous international travel taught me some simple rules. Change some money at the airport so you have local currency for the cab ride. This limits the opportunities for getting short changed by the cabbie. Always ignore the gypsy cab and limo drivers in baggage claim. They are typically planning to give you a real a real ride at twice the cost.

The first impression of the city was a huge traffic jam on the interstate. As we slowly passed the bumper to bumper traffic, I noticed the wide range of ethnic nationalities represented. I would later be surprised to learn that Toronto is the most ethically diverse city in the world.

Toronto is a Huron people's word meaning 'Meeting Place'. In the 1600’s Toronto was very crucial for its series of trails and water routes that led from northern and western Canada to the Gulf of Mexico. Known as the "Toronto Passage", it followed the Humber River, as an important overland shortcut between Lake Ontario and the upper Great Lakes. For this reason Toronto became a hot spot for French fur traders.

Toronto is the 5th largest city in North America at 2.4 million, which are more people than the populations of most of the provinces and territories in Canada. The ethnic diversity is what sets Toronto apart from other North American cities. Toronto is home to virtually all of the world's culture groups and is the city where more than 100 languages are spoken.


According to the City of Toronto’s website, “once primarily a British and protestant city, immigration has played a dynamic role in the changing face of Toronto since the end of the Second World War. Today, 42 per cent of all Canadian immigrants choose Toronto as their destination and as such, Toronto's visible minority population now accounts for more than 40 per cent of the population compared to 11 per cent nationwide. There are more than 90 different ethnic groups in the Toronto area and over one million non-English or French speaking people. The top ten source countries for immigration to Canada were China, India, Pakistan, Hong Kong, Iran, Sri Lanka, Philippines, Taiwan, Russia and Jamaica.”

It is apparent to the casual visitor that the city has embraced the many cultures of the world and it is working! Toronto has bilingual street signs, specialty stores, ethnic restaurants, ethnic publications and a variety of ethnic shopping centers. It is a vibrant city that at times feels more European than any other city in North America. Unlike other American cities there was not a racial undercurrent of conclaves. The atmosphere on the street was decidedly tolerant and open. Even the street beggars did not have an “in your face” attitude. They would silently stand and open a door to a store for you and politely say “have a nice day”. I’ve always maintained a simple rule for street beggars; you must contribute something to society even if it is a simple act. Act as a part of society not as outcast from it and I will contribute to your cause. Not once in my trip did I experience any individual in the city of Toronto act outside of societal boundaries, although there was clear and exuberate expression of ethnic multiculturism and individualism. I’m sure I could have found trouble if I had enough time, but it was refreshing that it was cloistered out of reach.

During dinner one night I overheard a discussion of two middle aged ladies from Toronto who were discussing the experience of a friend, who had recently moved with her husband to Chicago. She was white and her husband was black. The conversation focused on the racism the couple experienced in Chicago. The two ladies were in disbelief, appalled and dumbfounded that such demeaning and restrictive racial environment existed in the world. The married couple was denied a home purchase in a neighborhood because the husband was black. They described in great detail each of the subtle acts of racism that the couple experienced each day. I found myself quietly nodding in agreement as each violation was described.

The view during dinner from the CN tower.

At the start of the conversation I falsely assumed that the ladies were naïve to big city urban culture which requires a certain level of personal diligence mixed with slight adventure-like tension. Towards the end of the conversation my perspective shifted to the fact that racism and intolerance is alive and well in the states. This paradigm shift was only possible while being immersed in this incredible diverse city without a hint of these issues. For a moment I was able to examine our urban culture for what it was, a series of seething unhealed wounds. I was saddened by the realization that we tend to treat each other as if we are all five years old and are still on the playground. In reality, I must apologize to the five year olds because at that age we are all color blind and could not grasp the concept of racial intolerance.

I continue to wrestle with the meaning of this epiphany. Toronto was a mirror in which I could closely examine myself. Like finding the first grey hair or wrinkle in a once youthful face, you are profoundly confronted with the realization that you are not who you think you are. I am grateful to Toronto for this refreshing slap in the face. I will eagerly await my next opportunity to visit this invisible city on the northern plains which is the most cultural diverse city in the world. Who would have thunk-it???